Postcards from the Game
by Lady J2
Summary: Rated for some language. Previously posted as "The Next Days" So, any thoughts on what the kids in Tim's school are feeling? The parents? People of the streets?
1. The Next Days

_The usual: not mine, don't sue. Just exploring a thought.  
  
_

The Next Days

"Um, yeah. The school said I had to come here."

"Please, have a seat. We just want to make sure that everyone who needs to talk has the chance to do so."

"Especially those of us stupid enough to be right in the middle of it all, huh?"

"You were caught in something you had no control over. Does that make you stupid?"

"Maybe."

Silence.

"He didn't do it, you know."

"Who did do what?"

"The Batman. He didn't shoot that girl. She was shot way before he showed up to get us all out. He didn't even have a gun, unlike the other fuckers running around with guns everywhere – oops, sorry."

"For what?"

"Language. I'm not suppose to cuss. Mom really gets on my case if she hears it."

"Well, she probably has a point. But, your mom's not here. And if it helps, you can say anything you want with me. It stays here, just between you and me."

"You mean, my parents, the principle, they're not gonna know what I say?"

"Nope. Not allowed."

"Cool, I guess."

"Why don't you tell me what happened?"

"I was waiting on the front steps for Jennie and Drew, just like practically every day. Drew's _never_ on time. Well, this big black kid comes running up, yelling at everyone to get in the school. Course we all stared at him like he was stupid. Then suddenly cars are crashing into each other, people are yelling everywhere and guys with guns are just _there_, right in front of me. Course I took off into the school.

"I ran to the cafeteria first, there was even a few teachers there. Then, all of a sudden, the guys with the guns are in the building, in the _cafeteria_. So, I ran again. I saw this one kid, with a baseball bat of all things. It almost looked like he was directing traffic. Tim, Tom, something like that. Well, he hooked an arm around one of the kids who ran with me – Larry, I think. I think I had him last year in science.

"Well, Tim/Tom looked like he knew what he was doing and took Larry to the nurse's office. I.. I just followed behind. And when we got there…"

"It's okay. Take your time."

"There was blood _everywhere_. All over the nurse's table and under that girl. Between her and the cut on Larry's arm, the blood was all I could smell. And taste. I bit my tongue at sometime. Heh, I still hurts now."

"So, what did you do, there in the nurse's office?"

"Well, the nurse was busy trying to keep that girl alive. Me and another guy, we cut Larry's shirt off and put a really crappy bandage over it. But, it looked like it stopped bleeding. Then, I saw Maria just standing there, staring at the girl, like she was in shock. All I could do was put an arm around her. That's it."

"So, how'd you feel at this point?"

"How…? Scared out of my fucking mind man. I mean, there's the 'Hey, Mom's not here yet, and it's getting dark' or the 'What's that in the bushes at the Davis' house' scared, but this… this was 'Oh, God, I could die here' scared. And there was a girl dying in front of me. Dying right before my eyes. From a gun shot. I'm 16, I'm not suppose to watch someone die. I'm your average, upper-middle class kid, living in a relatively gang-free area of Gotham. You know how proud Mom and Dad are – were – of that? That's pretty much blown to hell now."

"What else were you feeling, right there in the nurse's office?"

"Useless. All I did was run, and follow the crowd. And hunker down like some little rabbit, praying the hawk doesn't see me."

"What do you think you should have felt like?"

"Like I knew what to do. Like Tim/Tom, whatshisname. I mean, he herded those of us running from the cafeteria into the one relatively safe place there, and then went back out, with only a baseball bat for christ's sake, to see if he could find a way out for that girl. That was balls. That felt like he knew what he was doing. That's what I wanted to feel."

"Well, what kind of training do you have?"

"Whaddya mean?"

"You said it felt like he knew what to do. He probably did, from either past experiences or some type of training."

"Dude, what kind of training does a high school kid have for guys with guns invading the halls?"

"I don't know really. But, it could be from some sort of military school, or even living in a bad section of the city. But, the point is, he obviously had some sort of training. Do you?"

"… No. I mean, scouts doesn't really count, does it? I'd never seen a gun until that day. And, yeah, white middle class, never really worried about guys with guns before. But, still, I mean… What the hell?"

"Sounds like you're still kinda angry."

"Damn straight I am! I mean, these guys just decide to off some girl, so they shoot up our school, freak all of us out, and kill her? She's just some teenager, just like me. What did she do? And why did they do it around me?! … God, that sounds awful. I mean, I don't even know if she's still alive."

"And you're not allowed to be angry?"

"Not about someone dying. That's just wrong, isn't it?"

"Why would you think that's wrong?"

"Cuz I'm angry about someone else's misery, I guess. It's not like she asked to be shot because of her dad."

"A good point, actually. And, yes, you can be angry for yourself over someone else's misery. She didn't ask to be shot, but because she was, you went through a lot of trauma too."

"I'm not bad?"

"No. You're perfectly normal."

"Thanks."

"You realize this won't be the last time you need to talk about this thought, right? You even need to talk this through with your parents again."

"They never listen. Yeah, they've kinda listened to the terror and angry part. That's why their fired up about the girl being in the same school as the rest of us any way. Mom refused to let me out of the house for two days afterwards. Not like I was really wantin' to get out, but, hey, house arrest? And, every time I bring him up, mom gives me that 'you won't talk about it if you know what's good for you' look."

"What him? Tim/Tom."

"Naw, although she keeps bugging me to remember his name. No, I mean _him_, the Batman. He walked right into the room, told us we were going home and we damn well all believed him."

"That's right. You said he didn't shoot the girl."

"Yeah. And none of the adults want to believe me."

"How do you know? Did you see how shot her?"

"No. All I really know is that one moment there were guys with guns everywhere. Then he shows up with those other two, the guys with the guns are gone, and he's ordering the other two to clear the way for him as he hauls her to safety. You don't do that if you shot someone already, do you?"

"No, I guess not."

"And, as we're leaving, one of these guys pops up out of nowhere. Just feet from me, with a gun, of course. Well, one of the other ones took him out with some boomer-rang thingy, and kept herded us all out. Batman and the other two – they didn't even have guns. And my parents won't listen to me about it."

"So, why don't you tell someone else?"

"What, so they can look at me like I'm an idiot too? The cops didn't exactly like hearing it the first time. And the TV's having a field day, calling him a killer."

"How many other kids saw the same thing you did?"

"I don't know. Fifteen, twenty. Why?"

"And did anyone else see anyone? Like in the cafeteria?"

"I… I don't know."

"Why don't you find out? All of you together are stronger than just you talking to your parents."

"Yeah. We know what we saw. Someone in the media has got to want to hear what we have to say. Thanks, doc."

"That's why I'm here. And, you will be again. On Tuesday."

"Geez. Okay, fine. Um, really, thanks doc."

"No problem."

_AN: I know absolutely nothing about counselors or psychologists. So, any and all discrepancies or idiotcies are mine alone. I just tried for the venting, trying to get the first handle on what the kids might feel down. Also, I fully recognize that I have no idea just how this conversation would really go, and I'm probably missing quite a bit. If anyone has any thoughts, feel free to let me know. Thanks._

_Obviously set right after _War Games: Act One_ ends. Figured someone should see what the "little people" might be feeling._


	2. Waiting

_AN: Okay, so this isn't really "next day," but it's along the lines of what everyone else is thinking. _

_The Next Days – Chapter Two: Waiting_

"Just what do those cops think they're doing?" the woman next to me groused for, like, the thousandth time. "Why don't they _tell_ us anything?"

I bit my tongue, just barely. After all, I was thinking the same thing. What the hell was going on inside that school? Where the hell was Billy? Why hadn't the cops told us anything? They were going to have to soon; the crowd around me, full of terrified parents, was fast approaching unruly.

"We should storm the place."

I snorted. "Stupid," I muttered.

"Excuse me?" _Ah, crap_. "What did you just say young lady?"

"What do you really think you can do, ma'am?"

"Get my Frances back!" She took another step towards me, right into my own space.

"Really. Do you actually think an untrained, unarmed mob has any prayer in this situation without killing someone inside?" I shook my head. "We need to let the police handle this. This is why we have them."

"Really," she sneered back. "Somehow I don't think you have a child trapped inside with those madmen."

And, just like that – maybe it was her tone, maybe it was just my own exponentially increasing frustration – I went from docile to pissy in 0.26 seconds.

"Ya know, you're right. I don't have a child. I have a younger brother – my only brother. Thanks for the fellowship and compassion."

I turned and tried to march away. Didn't work all that well with the crowd surrounding us, but somehow I managed to sidle off in a huff. A few moments later I popped out into one of those small clearings that miraculously appear when large groups of humans congregate like cattle in one place.

God, how can people be just so…. annoying and right at the same time?

I got here just after the first news reports, just in time to see the police lock down the school. Since then, nothing. We knew there were gunmen inside with the kids, that some people were hurt, but not who or how badly. And all I could see was Billy's face as I dropped him off this morning.

_"Glad you're here sis."_

God, please, keep him safe.

I checked my cell again, the third time in the last 15 minutes. No calls, no messages, nothing. I called Mom as soon as I heard the first reports, to let her know I was heading to Billy's school, only to leave a message. Three more messages since then, and a call to that gallery she "worked" at, and still nothing. The girl who answered the phone said she'd take a message, but if she remembered the phone call at all I'd be highly surprised.

Hell, it wasn't like I'd heard from Mom in the last day anyhow.

My little clearing was shrinking around me as the crowd shifted. Moving off to the side, I placed the call I'd been dreading, somehow even more than hearing anything from the school.

The phone rang, once, twice, sure enough, before the third –

"Central Coast Real Estate."

"Hi Maria. This is Julia. Is Dad around?"

"I'm sorry, he's not in yet. Can I take a message for him?" That was the thing about professional secretaries; they always sound sincere and concerned.

_Crap, again_. "Yeah, have him call my cell as soon as you see him, please. It's… really important."

"Of course, dear." She hesitated briefly. "If you don't mind me asking, it's somewhat early for you to call."

She was fishing, but then I never called him until after hours, or when I knew he wouldn't be interrupted. Dad was kinda picky that way.

"I'm in Gotham. It's almost noon here. Just, he needs to call, right away."

With that, I sank down onto the closest curb and let the crowd flow around me. This really wasn't the vacation I'd had in mind last week. This was just suppose to be a quick visit between quarters – I really couldn't afford to miss much school, what with the amount of money even the Cal State system was charging me. Plus, I was a senior – whatever that meant. This being my seventh year of higher education you'd think they come up with different terms than just "freshman," "junior," and "senior." Almost no-one gets out in four years nowadays. Not unless you have major backing at home.

Me, I found a job the day I turned 18.

The divorce two years ago had been bad enough, but then Mom decided to "pursue her dream" of art and get that big break in Gotham. After all, she already had a job lined up – working in a nice, little gallery in the city's art district. So, when I refused to give up five years of college to follow her like a good puppy dog, she'd called me ungrateful and left with Billy in tow.

Too bad she didn't tell me at the time she'd been fucking the gallery owner for three years on and off. I discovered that little bomb four days ago, just after getting to her place by taxi (_"We don't own a car, dear; don't really need it in the City. Why don't you just call a cab when you arrive?"_)

And, of all people, Billy's the one to tell me. How wrong is it if your 16 year-old brother is the one to tell you, his 26 year-old sister, that Mom and Dad divorced because Mom was having an affair, and moved to Gotham to be with the boyfriend?

Crap, again, let me tell you.

We finally "discussed" it, Mom and me, a few days later. That ended when Christian arrived, and Mom promptly left with him, leaving me a seething, shaking mess and Billy hiding in his room. .

That was a little over a day ago. And, judging by how blown out Christian's pupils were, I hadn't expected to hear from her anytime that night.

And then, this. Friggin' Columbine, right in the middle of Gotham City – with my little brother trapped inside. For _hours_.

I'd say somebody shoot me, but that would be in really bad taste right now.

Thank God there hadn't been any more shots since the ones that started this whole mess. At least, I hope.

"Here."

The appearance of a handkerchief startled me out of my increasingly morbid thoughts. I raised a hand to my face in shock. I was crying?

"Thanks," I replied, and cleared my throat, hoping the stranger didn't hear how my voice shook.

"No problem." He took a seat next to me. "You have someone inside too?"

"Yeah, my little brother. Flew out from Berkley to visit this week." Why did that just come out of mouth? "You?"

"My daughter. She's a freshman."

I've never been good at small talk. It felt even harder, in this situation. What do you say, "Hope your daughter doesn't get shot too?"

"How long have you been here?" I finally managed.

"Since about nine this morning. A co-worker told me about it. Nancy wanted to come with me, but I told her to get Kimberley out of school instead and stay home with her." He shrugged. "At least one daughter will be home safe."

"Probably a good thought." I sighed. "It's not like we're actually doing any good, just sitting here."

"Yeah. I've never felt so powerless in my whole life. Not even when the girls were born." His eyes turned distant for a moment, then he turned back to me. "Name's Pete. Pete Junson."

"Julia. Julia Horner." We shook hands. "Sorry to meet you this way Pete."

He snorted. "Me too."

Then, Lord, to my utter horror, my eyes started welling in earnest, not just that pitiful little stream of earlier.

_Please, God, let him be okay._

What if…

I slapped the hand with Pete's handkerchief over my mouth, stifling the sobs. "I'm sorry," I choked out somehow.

What if…

"It's okay," he pulled me against his chest, this perfect stranger and offered me his clean shirt as well as his handkerchief.

And the only things running through my mind were Mom, and Billy and – God, Dad doesn't even know yet –

The tears just ripped out of me. Not those pretty cries, the ones that make you seem delicate and worthy of protection. No, these were the ones pulled right out of my gut and shook my whole body.

After about five minutes of eternity, I pushed back and Pete let me go. "Sorry about that again." I wiped my eyes with his now thoroughly soaked handkerchief.

"Like I said, it's okay. Expected even." And if his eyes held a sheen, we both ignored it. "You're here alone?"

I nodded. "Yeah." And left it at that. Fuck Mom and her little coke-head boyfriend. Who looked about my age, for crying out loud.

Pete and I made a little more small talk, his accounting job, my engineering courses, the lastest Spider-man movie; odd somewhat, what with me crying my eyes out on his shoulder and waiting for some kind of word from the cops. But, it was better than driving myself slowly insane wondering.

Guess he felt the same, cause he didn't move either.


	3. Bad Day

_AN: There could be a Spoungecake Factory, and a Brightmont Hotel. Really._

_Just more from the little people.___

It had been a bad day.

A bad, bad day.

A day from hell, really.

And the dinner rush hadn't even started.

Jason Murtok rolled his shoulders and barely resisted the urge to rub his eyes.

One: the produce company didn't deliver half the daily order, and none of the specialties. When he called to complain, and get the "absolutely-necessary-I-can't-believe-you'd-ask-that" scallions, fresh herbs and baby red potatoes, the receptionist listened sympathetically – then told him his representative was "unavailable." Apparently every rep was "unavailable," meaning, while she was very sorry, he was SOL getting any further deliveries today.

Two: a currently sulking sou chef, who not having any of his absolutely necessary product to work with, proceeded to vent this frustration by alternately yelling at a hapless (and innocent) prep-cook and slamming the door to the office. Repeatedly. Oh, and don't forget having to pry the phone out of the man's hand when he began yelling at the now-not-so-sympathetic produce receptionist.

Three: An executive chef (who normally reins in the more temperamental aspects to the kitchen) on vacation for the next two weeks. Jay furtively hoped he got a nasty sunburn somewhere sensitive.

Four: Three servers called out sick. Two for lunch. Normally a time for panic, but for…

Five: Only ten covers during lunch. Ten. In a restaurant that seats 400. In the middle of Gotham City. He'd lost more in labor alone than they'd sold. On a _Monday_ of all days.

Six: His opening bartender had to leave (legitimately) in the middle of her shift, meaning he'd had to set up the bar.

Seven: And now his closing bartender was an hour late. Without a call.

This time he gave into the urge to rub his eyes.

Vanessa, the night hostess, eyed him. "Um, Jason, are you okay?"

"Yeah, it's just been a long day."

"It's five-thirty."

"I know."

With a small shrug, she returned to straightening menus. Outside, traffic sounded even worse than normal. And the people streaming past the doors, well, they uniformly had something on their minds other than an upscale, casual dining experience.

"Did you see the news?" Vanessa asked. Translation: Did you see _him_?

"No. It's been on in the bar all day, but each time I manage to actually look at the screen, it's yet another reporter in front of the school."

"I can't believe he's real. I mean, yeah, everyone know someone who knows someone who's seen the guy, but I always thought he was just a story to entertain the tourists." She shok her head. "Even on TV, he just seemed to fill the screen."

"And that couldn't have been the camara angle at all, could it?" he retorted before thinking, and the half-puzzled, half-hurt look she gave him made him feel like he'd just kicked a puppy. "Sorry, just I still haven't seen this famous shot, nor any glmipose of _him_ and I've been working night shifts in this town for five years. A little hard to accept." He shuffled the papers in his hand – there were always papers in his hands. Just once he'd like to walk through the restaurant without something that needed his attention _right now_. "Suzes still hasn't called?"

"Sorry."

Damn. She took the transit system, just like 80 of city.

He picked up the phone to call her cell again, then –

"God, Jay, sorry I'm so late. Every damn train and bus seems to be delayed today. I had to walk the last twenty blocks, can you believe it? And, of course, my phone chose to die this afternoon." Suze paused to breath and hold up the offending object as evidence.

"Dear God, I'm just glad you're in one piece."

She smiled a hello to Vanessa, shot him a quizzical look and shoved her bag into a cabinet behind the bar, all at the same time. "What are you talking about?"

"You haven't seen the news?"

"No." She shook out the white apron with a practiced flick of her wrist. "I was in the library all day, then trying to get here for the last two hours. Oh, and by the way, just when I thin ghtis icty can't get any nuttier, it does. There are cops _everywhere_."

In the background, yet another perfectly coiffed anchor rattled down the details of the gang attack on the school that morning.

"And who set this bar up? Nothing's where it's suppose to be."

"I did. And look at the TV."

Pictures flashed across the screen – milling parents, wrecked and dripping cars, a huddled couple sitting on a curb –

"Why did you – "

– a mass of kids flooding out the front door –

"Just look at the damn TV!"

That took her aback. "Okay," she drawled and craned her head over her shoulder. "Just what – Holy hell!"

– a dark figure, complete with mask and flowing cape, cradling a limp and bloody girl.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." A wide-eyed and startled bartender turned to the flock of servers and bussers who magically appeared around the bar. "Tell me that's a joke. A really bad joke, but a joke."

"Nope." One of the new guys said – nice, clean cut kid who'd been glued to the TV from the moment he walked in the door. "It's been all over the news. I've seen that shot four times now."

A few other servers nodded and Suze stared at them with a somewhat glazed look. In the ensuing babble almost no-one heard the quiet, awed "He is real."

* * *

Three hours later, and his piddling little bad day had actually gotten worse, transforming into the day from hell for _everyone_ _in the city_. He hadn't needed the commissioner's press conference to start sending people home, although after the curfew announcement there was much less whining or foot-dragging.

ESPN filled the TVs behind the bar now. The news, while fascinating in that train-wreck sort of way, had become monotonous and far too depressing after a while. It seemed like every five minutes they reported another almost out of control fire or gang shooting. It didn't take a genius to see Gotham was this close to open warfare. Even without the constant bombardment from channel 4 the almost frantic atmosphere outside had seeped into the restaurant, leaving both staff and customers edgy.

And what few customers they'd had earlier in the evening left shortly after the curfew announcement.

Now, only the two dishwashers closing the kitchen, himself and Suze remained.

"You gonna try to get home tonight?" he asked as he helped her lock up the last booze screen.

She snorted. "Hell no. I called the Brightmont down the street and, sure enough, they had a room they were more than happy to charge my credit card to hold."

He raised an eyebrow. "Aren't they a little pricey?"

"Yup. But, there's no way I'll make it home before nine o'clock. And I don't have an active death wish. I'd rather cough up the two bills and be safe tonight than risk it."

"You think it's going to be that bad?"

"I think it's already that bad. Since when do the cops go on the air and tell us we all have to be home and in bed by nine? And, you've watched the same news reports I have. It's getting worse out there, Jay, not better. You know the reporters can't tell us half of what's really going on."

He actually hadn't thought of that. Oy vay.

"It's still light out, I can walk there from here in less than five minutes if I hoof it and they had space." She shrugged. "I can make more money." Then she turned and placed the keys to the bar in his hand gently. "Look, tell the boys in the back they're done and let's all get the hell out of here. If the kitchen's still standing tomorrow, Victor can come back and bitch you out then."

"Riiiiight. The little weasel was the first one out."

"I noticed."

"And here I was worried about a screwed up produce delivery and a crappy lunch rush."

"Perspective, huh?"

"Yeah." He bounced the keys in his hand and made a decision. "So, when did you see him?"

She snorted again. "Just after the commissioner's announcement, sliding out the back door without so much as a 'bye,' thank you very much. Between you and me, I'm so telling Al when he gets back."

He shook his head. "Not Victor. _Him_."

"Oh." She looked up for a moment, then gave a small shrug. "About six years ago. I was young and stupid, and hadn't learned not to drink on shift yet. I was working a small, neighborhood bar back then. I vaguely remember locking up, then someone grabbed my purse, and pushed me into the doorway. There was a rush of air, then someone else handed my purse back to me with a very stern admonition to never lock up alone again and to find a cab _now_. I pulled a hamstring sprinting to the street and was practically run down by the first cab I saw." She hoisted her bag onto her shoulder. "Do I know it was him? No. But someone saved me that night. And everyone I knew back then would have damn sure taken credit."

She moved to the door, then paused and turned back to him. "Every bartender develops a sixth sense for troublemakers. You've got it too, I've seen it. But, I didn't see it earlier; hell, I ignored it in favor of studying on the train for a English test." She ran a hand through her hair. "You were right – I'm damn lucky I made it here today, especially as I didn't pay any attention to my surroundings. Well, I'm paying attention now. This ain't over, and it's not going to be pretty." She shrugged again. "Say hi to Les for me."

With that she left, phone to her ear. As he locked the door behind her he heard "Yeah, Sheila right? Well, I'm about five minutes away on foot. Can we just chat until I'm actually standing in front of you?"


End file.
